


What If We Stop Keeping A Secret?

by byesexualniall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 19:24:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17534729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byesexualniall/pseuds/byesexualniall
Summary: all your pictures on my phone // and all your clothes are in my bedroom // what if we stop keeping a secret?or; Niall and Harry have been secretly dating since 2014. They've avoided anyone finding out, until one tiny mistake sends it all to shit.





	What If We Stop Keeping A Secret?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NarryMyBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NarryMyBed/gifts).



> hiya! i'm throwing the notes at the beginning of this fic for three reasons. 
> 
> 1\. there is a sweater that is central to this fic! and [this is what it looks like](http://narrymybed.tumblr.com/post/162859139857/hsfashionarchive-harry-at-lax-july-10-2017) if you want to have a reference. 
> 
> 2\. there is a song that goes along with this fic! and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QiMj6TOsX6E) is it, if you want to listen. 
> 
> 3\. I came up with this idea with the help of my sweet friend Sarah, @narrymybed, and I want to make sure she also gets the attention she deserves! thank you so much Sarah for inspiring me, helping me find the right sweater for this fic, and for taking a look at this fic before I published it, as well as for your help with the moodboard (you can see the moodboard on tumblr). you are so, so kind and i'm so, so happy we became buds through my fics and through narry! i can't thank you enough for all your help, for all your kind, supportive words, for all the help you've given me, and for somehow knowing the answer to all my questions. i write because i love it and because i need to, but i share my writing because of you and people like you. thank you for making a very solitary activity much less isolating.
> 
> \-- 
> 
> finally, thank you so, so, so, so much for reading! it means the whole world to me; i literally can't express that enough. i hope you enjoy this! and if you want to talk about narry or fic or anything else, you can find me on [tumblr](http://byesexualniall.tumblr.com/tagged/x) . lots of love. x
> 
> (also hey did you notice i figured out how to link on here? i've been whining about that since october woo)
> 
> \--------

_all your pictures on my phone // and all your clothes are in my bedroom // what if we stop keeping a secret?_

 

They’re getting careless. They both know it.

It’s been four years of this now, though—the flying back and forth to meet each other in various cities across the world, the sneaking around, going out of the way to not get photographed outside their shared home, pretending their dog, Ronan, is just Harry’s, avoiding each other in public so they can latch onto each other in private—and it’s getting old. Harry’s getting too comfortable with it. No one’s ever noticed him checking into the same hotel as Niall before. Why would they now?

He lands in Paris before Niall, clambers off the plane with puffy eyes and a dry throat, his current hyperfixation—a colorful, striped Gucci jumper—thrown on carelessly over a TPWK t-shirt. He slings his holdall over his shoulder, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and thinks nothing of the handful of paparazzi outside the airport. He’s got other things on his mind, anyway, and they involve Niall, an empty hotel suite, and the four bottles of champagne he asked Jeff to have waiting in the room.

Harry has enough time, even, to take a walk after he checks in and before Niall lands, throwing a shearling jacket over his jumper and meandering through the eighth arrondissement. Hands deep in his pockets, sheltered from the biting March air, Harry wanders in and out of stores, avoiding places he knows he’ll be spotted, and spending €7 on a novelty salt and pepper shaker set that he thinks Niall will laugh at. Maybe Niall will even post them in his Instagram story, Harry hopes, pocketing his wallet and pulling his jacket closer around his chest. He likes being the only one who knows, sometimes, what the things in Niall’s Instagram stories really mean.

Niall arrives three hours after Harry, jumping straight into the Range Rover that’s waiting for him, ignoring the paparazzo who asks if he knows his ex-bandmate is also in town. He makes a mental note to talk to Harry about cooling it, maybe flying into smaller airports in the future, or wearing more hats so people don’t recognize them. He wonders, even, if they should talk to Tara and Jeff about ramping up the “ex-bandmates turned bitter industry rivals” storyline, swallowing the way it makes his stomach churn and his skin itch. Five years of pretending they’re not dating, Niall thinks, four, since the hiatus, of playing up this stupid storyline, and they’re still doing it. It makes him sick. But they’re all in so deep now—there’s no other way.

That’s The Thing, though,—The Thing Niall rolls around in his brain so often that it keeps him up at night, The Thing he spends hours talking to his therapist about, The Thing he and Harry ignore, The Thing Liam and Louis say has gotten out of hand—they’re so deep into this now, half a decade deep, that neither of them can see a way out. There’s no way to do it, no casual interview slip that would work, no “hey, me and Harry forgot to tell you, but we’ve been dating since 2014!” Instagram caption that would go over well, no PR-orchestrated leak that could go off without a hitch. They’ve trapped themselves here—in their desperate attempt to keep their relationship private, sacred, special, they’ve turned it into something untouchable, an oxymoron, a monument to their love, their stupidity, their inability to make a decision, their ability to withstand everything.

It doesn’t matter, though. The Thing is a knot and a stomach ache when Niall thinks about it, a lump in his throat and a pressure in his chest, but it’s nothing the rest of the time. It’s nothing, now, when he lets himself into the hotel room and finds Harry sprawled out in the king sized bed, hands clasped behind his head, an episode of Skam playing quietly on the TV.

“Thought you’d finished this show,” Niall drops his bags by the door, toes off his shoes, and climbs onto the bed. He snuggles into Harry easy, comfortable, melting into his skin like he was here yesterday. He loves how they do this, fall back into being with each other like no time has passed at all, like they’re picking up a conversation that only ended a minute ago. It’s been three weeks since they’ve been together, feels, Niall thinks, like no time at all, now.

“I did,” Harry presses a soft kiss to his hair, “I’m rewatching it. It inspires me. I’m thinking maybe I’ll write my next album through the point of view of a high schooler.”

“S’a bit weird, isn’t it, love?” Niall slides his hand up under Harry’s jumper, letting the skin of his boyfriend’s stomach warm up his cold fingers. He knows Harry doesn’t mind—he’s always overheating, anyway, like he was made a little warmer than most people so he could share it with Niall.

“I dunno, maybe? I’ve just been thinking,” Harry tails off for a second, Niall pinches gently at his stomach to bring him back. “Just been thinking. There’s something about high school love stories...”

“Yeah?”

“You know how I love them all? Like, is there anything I love more than a teen rom com?”

“Nothin’. Except, maybe, avocados.”

“More than avocados,” Harry smiles, pressing his chin into the top of Niall’s head, the soft cushion of his hair, “I think it’s because I missed out on it, you know?”

“Mm?”

“Like, I missed out on my teen love story. Not being out, not being confident yet—I didn’t get to do this stuff when I was a kid. I didn’t get to have a boy climb in through my bedroom window to kiss him, or, like, stay out all night driving in a boy’s car and listening to music, or have milkshakes and share a straw, or wear my boyfriend’s sweatshirt, or… all the stuff they do, you know? And when I watch it in shows or read it in books it just—I feel so captivated by it. I think it’s because I never had it.”

“D’you want me to climb in through our window at home?” Niall asks, running his thumb, slowly, up and down, over Harry’s lower stomach. “I’ll climb in through the window and then we can snog all night with the lights off and every time Ronan makes noise I’ll freak out like your mum is coming to bust us.”

Harry laughs from the back of his throat and Niall relaxes, visibly, into him again. “Imagine if you got caught doing that,” he manages between laughs, “what a way to come out that would be.”

“Oh, God,” it’s not even real and Niall feels his cheeks flush red with embarrassment, “just a picture of me arse sticking out the window while you try to pull me in? Argh. It’s humiliating.”

“You’d ruin your knee, sweetheart,” says Harry softly, carding his fingers through Niall’s soft hair where it’s starting to curl at the base of his neck, “we’re too old for that shit. Would be a nice picture of your bum though, I’m sure.”

“You don’t need more pictures of my bum,” Niall laughs. “You see it plenty in real life, pet.”

“Could always do with more.”

“Disgusting,” says Niall, but he turns his head and presses a kiss to Harry’s chest as he says it. “That sounds like a cool idea for your next record, though, petal. I’m sorry for calling it weird. I like the way you explained it; it could be really cool to adopt a new personality while you write, too. I think you’d do a great job.”

Harry hums, no offense taken, and slides his hands up under Niall’s white t-shirt, flipping him over onto his back and then hovering over him, planting his hands on the bed on either side of his boyfriend. They beam at each other, for just a moment, before Harry lowers himself down for a kiss. His arm strength is hot as hell, Niall thinks, for just one second, before Harry’s tongue is in his mouth and his knee is between his legs and he’s got other, more pressing, even hotter, things to think about.

\--

It’s a pounding at the door that wakes Niall up, Harry still warm and naked next to him, a tattooed arm slung across his hip. The pounding won’t stop but Harry’s not stirring, and Niall has half a second to worry that a fan’s found them before he hears Basil’s voice on the other side of the door, screaming.

“Niall! We’re twenty minutes late, what the hell are you doing?! Niall! Let’s go!”

“Shit, fuck,” Niall scrambles out of bed, Harry’s arm still a dead weight on top of him. Basil’s still pounding as he shouts, “I’m coming, Baz! Sorry! One second!”

“Fucking finally,” he hears Basil say, and the pounding, mercifully, relents.

The room is a tip—they’ve barely been here three hours, and all they’ve done is cuddle and fuck and sleep, and, somehow, it’s like their entire lives have been dumped into this one suite in Paris. The only light in the room is coming from the small slit in the closed blinds, tossing dull, clouded sunlight over their room, their mess, his Harry, stirring, in bed.

“What’s happening?” Harry murmurs, rubbing a hand across his eyes, making to get up.

“I’m late, pet, it’s okay, you don’t need to get up.”

“Oh,” Harry lets his head hit the pillow, falling back, “for your NRJ appearance? Shit. How late?”

“Uh,” Niall glances at the clock next to the bed, one leg in his skinny jeans. Harry looks like art: tanned, tattooed skin contrasting with the crisp, white bed sheets, glowing like some kind of Greek God, the blankets tangled up by his hips, his whole body on display for Niall. It’s nearly impossible not to get back into bed, to bury himself in Harry’s chest, to kiss at his thighs until he’s whining, to say fuck NRJ, fuck work, fuck Basil, fuck everything that isn’t Harry. “It’s 5:40. I’m meant to be there at 6 and it’s…. It’s forty minutes away.”

“Crap.”

“Yeah,” it’s dark and he’s rushing and everything is a mess and Niall can barely see, with the lights still off, so he buttons his jeans and grabs the jumper closest to him on the floor, throwing it over his head and shoving his feet into his boots in record time. He has just enough time to snatch his wallet and phone off the bedside table before Basil starts knocking on the door again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Niall leans over the bed and presses a quick, gentle kiss to Harry’s lips, whining when Harry tugs at his jumper and doesn’t let go.

“You’ve a hickey,” Harry winces, “sorry. There’s some concealer in my bag by the door, it should match your skin good enough. Take it, love.”

Niall manages a thank you, whispered against Harry’s lips, before Basil pounds on the door so hard he can feel it in his stomach. Harry scrunches up his nose, and Niall runs, faster than he ever has before, out into the hall, grabbing Harry’s concealer on the way.

He doesn’t realize, until he’s in the car, using his phone as a mirror and attempting to cover up his hickey, that he’s wearing Harry’s jumper.

\--

It shouldn’t be a big deal that he’s wearing Harry’s jumper, really. He’s done it before, plenty of times, and nothing’s happened, save for a few observant fans picking up on it. It’s comforting, too, the way it smells like Harry’s cologne and a little bit of sweat, the way it hangs off Niall’s smaller frame, his hands drowning in the too-long sleeves and his collarbone peeking out from the top. It’s better than his own shirt and he doesn’t regret it, really, even has half the heart to hope that the colorful, oversized jumper is enough to distract from the poorly concealed hickey blooming on his neck.

He coasts his way through NRJ no problem, fielding questions about the tail-end of his tour, plans for another record next year, thoughts on the current top 40, and the usual probes about an eventual One Direction reunion. He chews on the sleeves of Harry’s jumper when the interviewer asks if he’s spoken to Harry, Louis, or Liam recently, feels his hickey burning when he lies easily, says “we’ve all got such busy schedules, so it’s tough, yeah, but we do have dinner when we can. It’s always nice to catch up with the boys, we’ll always be friends. Of course a reunion will happen one day.”

Harry’s been blacklisted from Niall’s interviews—a detail that fits perfectly with the rivalry narrative they push, keeping everyone off their trail—so no one, Niall thanks God, can ask about the rumor that Harry’s in Paris right now, too. Instead, they round out the interview with a promise to come back to Paris soon and a plug for Niall’s show at Zénith Paris tomorrow night, before Basil whisks him away, rushing Niall to the waiting Range Rover, barely even letting him stop to shake the show host’s hand.

The paparazzi are thick outside, the flashes hitting Niall so unexpectedly that he wishes he had sunglasses, despite the fact that the sun is fully down, now. It’s only a few seconds, though, before the door to the car slams behind him with a dull thud and the sounds die down and Basil slides in next to him, as the driver pulls away, and says, “you’re much too old for hickeys, Niall.”

“I know,” Niall melts back into the seat, glad for the blacked out windows. He can still hear muffled shouting outside, more so than usual—but he guesses it’s been a while since he’s been to France, and they’re probably all excited to see him. “Do you think anyone noticed?”

From the front of the car, Niall’s driver snorts. Basil, next to him, clears his throat. His phone, in his pocket, buzzes for the hundredth time in the past hour.

“What?”

“Erm,” says Basil, “there’s been a bit of an… incident, Niall.”

“What?” Niall repeats himself, and, suddenly, his stomach drops. “Is Harry okay?”

“He’s okay,” Basil rushes, familiar, after all these years, with Niall’s priorities. “No one’s hurt, everyone’s fine. But people did notice the hickey.”

“Okay,” Niall takes a deep breath, feels his heart beat relax, slowly but surely. “Can we throw together a story?”

“I think,” says Basil, passing his phone over to Niall, “that this thing has run its course, mate.”

“What?” Niall’s starting to sound like a broken record. The car is zooming through Parisian streets, the world whipping past Niall while his brain stops and stutters, his hands shake and sweat, his leg bounces and stills and Basil waits, bated breath, as Niall reads.

They’ve caught on. Finally.

The update accounts, the fan accounts, the tumblrs, even fucking E! News is on the story, Niall realizes, as he swipes through the seemingly endless screenshots Basil has taken for him. They’ve put it all together: Harry landing in Paris today, traipsing around the city in a striped Gucci sweater, checking into a hotel only for Niall to check into the same one a few hours later and stumble out, a few more hours later, sporting Harry’s jumper on his shoulders and his hickey on his neck. Someone’s made a list of all the times Niall and Harry have been in the same place at the same time without being seen together, of all the times they’ve been spotted in each other’s clothes, of the one or two times Niall’s posted an Instagram story of Ronan. It’s all over—half a decade of hiding, of planning, of worrying, over, collapsing, with one big mistake.

It’s not as dramatic as Niall expected it to be. He’s had nightmares about this moment—about people finding out, about something leaking, about Harry ending it all—and every time his heart stops, the world stops, and everything comes crashing down. But it’s really happening, holy shit, it’s really happening, and everything’s the same—cars are still driving down the street and a baby is still crying outside the car and he can still hear street vendors shouting in French and the world is still turning, the same as it always is.

Niall’s phone is still buzzing, though, and when he fishes it out of his pocket he finds 45 missed calls and over 100 texts, his battery practically drained from it all. Everyone’s accounted for: he’s got calls from his mum, his dad, Greg, Tara, Liam, Louis, Lou Teasedale, Gemma, Anne, his manager, Jeff, Ben, James, Paul, Julian, Julia, Maren, Kacey, Deo, Sean and Shawn, Mully, Ed, even—and he has to blink four times to make sure it’s real—a text from Zayn, that says, just “alrite mate?”

It’s nice of them, he knows, to reach out and make sure he’s okay. He’s so loved, clearly, by so many people, who want to support him through this scary moment, and he needs to go through and reply to them all, as soon as he can, so they don’t worry too much, he knows, but he can’t focus on anything, right now, other than the most important text on his phone.

 **H** : It’s okay. Be safe. See you soon. Love you always. X

\--

Harry’s on the phone when Niall lets himself back into the room. Nothing’s changed, except for the fact that Harry’s put some clothes on and one of the pillows is on the floor and Niall’s biggest secret, the most important thing in his life, is suddenly public knowledge. But other than that, Niall tells himself, scanning the room, noticing that Harry hasn’t packed up his bags or started running away, everything’s more or less the same.

He’s on the phone to Jeff, Niall can tell, but Harry makes his way over to him instinctively as he talks. They collide in the middle of the room, Harry wrapping his free arm around Niall, Niall melting into his body. He tucks his head under Harry’s chin and rests his hands just above his bum, savoring the way Harry’s chest vibrates as he hums in agreement to whatever Jeff is saying, and closes his eyes. He’s here, right now, safe, warm, and with Harry, and that’s all that matters, even if the world outside is falling apart. Niall tells himself that over and over again, and again, and again, until he lifts his head up and realizes Harry’s off the phone.

“You’re still here.”

He doesn’t know where it comes from, the need to say that. But he feels better once it’s out.

“You came back.”

“Don’t be stupid,” it feels a little like Niall’s been punched in the gut, “of course I came back.”

“And of course I’m still here,” Harry touches his face, thumb cutting across his cheek, “do you hear how ridiculous you sound?”

“Was scared,” Niall admits on an exhale, tightening his grip around Harry, just for a second. “We’ve worked on keeping this a secret so long—and it was all my fault.”

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault, love. You picked up the wrong jumper, but I didn’t notice. And this,” he presses, gently, on Niall’s hickey with his thumb; Niall gasps into the space between them as Harry continues, “was all me.”

“What are we gonna do?” It’s hard not to melt into Harry’s touch, to ignore what’s happening and focus, instead, on the way Harry’s thumbing over his jawline. But they’ve been ignoring this for so long, Niall reminds himself, and look where it’s gotten them.

“I guess we have to come clean now,” Harry drops his hand from Niall’s jaw to his waistline, where he slides it up under the jumper. Skin to skin contact. It calms them both down. “I’m ready if you are.”

“This is gonna change everything.”

“It’ll change nothing,” Harry promises. His rings are cold against Niall’s skin, the free space of his fourth finger on his left hand searing hot. “We’re still us. It’s just that… everyone will know.”

“I’ve never,” Niall takes a deep breath, steadies himself, “what if everyone knowing ruins it?”

“It won’t. It can’t. I won’t let it, and neither will you.”

And that’s it, really. Niall realizes it so suddenly, with such confidence, that it almost makes a thud noise in his brain. They won’t let it.

There’s nothing more important, never has been, than them. Nothing has ever felt like this, worked like this, existed like this. Nothing has ever made Niall so sure he was put on the earth for a reason. Nothing has ever made him want to stay, so bad. Nothing matches, nothing comes close. This is it. And that’s all there is to it.

“Right?” Asks Harry, and Niall knows, without having to ask, that he’s thinking the same thing.

“Right,” Niall echoes, smile sneaking its way across his face. He watches as Harry matches him, pulling him closer, closer, until their bodies are touching and they’re one, again, as they should be.

\--

“Zayn texted me,” Niall says later, when they’re sitting on the couch and trying to decide which picture to Instagram. There are thousands, five years worth, that no one’s ever seen. Picking just one for this Instagram announcement is more stressful than choosing an album cover, somehow.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. To ask if we’re okay.”

“He didn’t text me,” Harry holds his phone out toward Niall, showing him a picture of them from their trip to Edinburgh last year, bundled up against the cold and smiling on top of Arthur’s Seat.

Niall shakes his head, “Something more… homey,” he says, before, “I think by texting me he was reaching out to both of us, petal.”

Harry just hums. Niall’s thinking about how to text him back when Harry says, “what about just one with Ronnie?”

“Babe,” Niall breathes, “you’re a fucking genius. Where’s that one of us and Ronan that Liam took last summer? In his backyard?”

“I’ve got it,” Harry holds out his phone and—it’s perfect, really. The three of them, Niall in his striped t-shirt and Harry in a sheer black button down and Ronan, in between them, tongue hanging out of his mouth, matching the smiles on his dads’ faces. The three of them, beaming at Liam, taking the picture in his sunny backyard in late August. Niall remembers now wishing he could’ve posted it back then.

“It’s perfect,” he tells Harry. When he looks up, Harry’s eyes are glistening.

“We should do it at the exact same time, yeah?” says Harry, tears still pricking at his eyes, smile busting his cheeks. “Cause mass hysteria.”

“Should we run it past Jeff and my team first?”

“Nah,” Harry shakes his head, lets one tear fall, “this one’s all us.”

\--

And so it goes. They hit “share” together, Niall and Harry, and wait for the world to burn.

Niall rereads his caption 200 times while he waits for the likes to come in: _Five years now I’ve been able to call H my boyfriend,_ says his carefully crafted post, _and five years now I’ve had to hide that. Guess that bit’s over now ! Thank you all for your kindness ! Very happy to finally get this off my chest . Here’s me, H, and our dog Ronan last summer . See you soon ._

Harry doesn’t second guess. _All the love as always_ , he writes. _Love, us.️_


End file.
